One afternoon when I was little, I was sitting underneath a coconut tree when a tiny yellow and brown weaver dropped suddenly from the sky. I don’t know what made that little bird fall, but it landed with a thud on the red clay earth. I moved to help it, then decided not to. The weaver was injured. It was better off dying on its own than having me take it back to the village, where it would likely die in pain a day or two later or, worse, live out its life with a broken wing. For the longest time, I watched as that stubborn bird tried to stand up on its crooked little legs, flapping its wings wildly, only to topple over and lie still before trying all over again.
Then something miraculous happened. After the bird had lain motionless for so long I thought it was dead, it stood up as solid as ever and lifted off into the sky.
When I saw Ibrahim and Mohamed, I felt like that bird. Something had knocked me clear out of the sky, and here I was on the ground, trying to get up. But I couldn’t, and I wondered if I’d ever have the perseverance of that small weaver. I sat in a trance, not moving. My glazed eyes locked on Ibrahim’s eyes, then moved to Mohamed’s. What broke the spell was Ibrahim. With a defeated sigh, he looked down at his arms, which were bandaged like mine. “The rebels cut off his hands too.” I gasped at the realization. And then I saw that Mohamed was cradling his arms in exactly the same way.
I felt a chill, though it was very warm in the back of the truck with all our bodies crammed so close together. My head slipped onto the shoulder of the person sitting next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t,” a soft female voice replied. The woman gently pushed my head back down onto her fleshy shoulder, then stroked my forehead with her fingers.
To avoid the rebels, the ECOMOG truck took a longer route to Freetown, along a rough road full of potholes and ditches. Somehow I managed to catch a bit of sleep, with my head still on my neighbor’s shoulder.
I woke when the truck stopped, and the woman turned toward me.
“What happened to you, sweet girl?” she asked quietly, wiping some hair out of my eyes. “No. Don’t answer. Save your voice.”
She poured some water onto a cloth, then ran it over my forehead and cheeks. “My name is Fatmata,” she said. “My uncle was caught in the attack at Manarma, like you, I am guessing. My brother and I are here with him.” She gestured to the two men sitting beside her. One of them was covered from head to toe in caked blood.
ECOMOG soldiers were helping people disembark from the truck. My body tightened when it was my turn, and my lips started to quiver. Fatmata sensed my anxiety. “We’re in Lungi,” she told me. “We need to take a boat to Freetown, just a short distance over the water.”
It was dark by now, and on the far shore I could see lights going up the sides of buildings taller than palm trees. Lights appeared to be hanging everywhere! In Magborou, we lived our nights in darkness except for the light from the fire or the few kerosene lamps we owned.
“May I stay with you?” Fatmata asked in a low voice. She was a little taller than me, I could see as we stood side by side, and a bit heavier. I guessed she was about 20.
Fatmata led me to the pam-pam, a boat similar to the long wooden canoe men used in Magborou to fish. I spied a few other pam-pams in the water, sunk down with only their helms sticking out.
“No,” I cried. “I can’t go. It will sink. I’m sure it will!”
I had never been in a boat before, and I knew there was no way I could swim without my hands.
Fatmata assured me that everything would be all right. “I’ll hold you the entire time,” she said. “We will get to the other side safely.”
We were the last people to board. The boat moved smoothly, and my apprehension lifted as I watched the lights of the city dance over the water. I had always wanted to visit Freetown, because the adults in the village talked about how big and exciting it was.
Once we landed, ECOMOG soldiers led us to another truck. The vehicle made a singing noise as we moved through the streets of Freetown; I know now it was a siren. In the West, ambulances blare to tell drivers to get out of the way. But in Freetown, the people crowded onto the streets didn’t seem to notice. They walked right in front of that truck, not bothering to step aside. If I had been healthy, I could have reached the hospital more quickly on foot.
When we arrived at the front gate of the hospital, a woman in a nurse’s uniform directed us to a building at the end of the big complex of hospital wards.
“She’s telling us to go there for the night,” Fatmata said. “Don’t you worry, little one, I will stay with you tonight.”
The stench from the building reached me before I even walked inside—blood, vomit, and sweat. The auditorium was crowded with people lying on the bare cement floor. Blood was everywhere. As I passed through the door with Fatmata by my side, I felt like one of Mohamed’s ghosts on the lookout for a healthy body to possess. But this building held no one healthy; everyone was sick. When I sat down, I immediately threw up.
I was among the first to be treated the next morning. Some nurses took me to a bright white room with a huge light hanging from the ceiling. One of the nurses explained it was an operating room.
The doctor, a man with a gruff voice, wore a long white coat and glasses. He spoke Krio, but one of the nurses translated his words into Temne for me. Did I know anyone in Freetown? he asked.
“Yes, my uncle Sulaiman,” I replied.
“Do you know where he lives?”
Sulaiman was Marie and my father’s youngest brother. I had never visited him, but I knew he was a businessman in Dovecut, a shopping area in Freetown.
The doctor stuck what looked like a long sewing needle into my arm which he said would put me to sleep. When I awoke, it was nightfall, and Fatmata was by my bedside. I was in a big room lined with beds. It was the girls’ ward, Fatmata told me, filled with patients my age and younger. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t; whatever the doctor had given me made me woozy. My arms had been bandaged in bright white material. Not a speck of blood showed through the fabric.
Fatmata held a spoonful of plain white rice up to my mouth. Before I could swallow it, I threw up.
“You need to eat,” she said gently. “You need food to give you energy, so we will try again later.”
I fell asleep before I could answer.
The next day, when Fatmata came to visit, she told me her uncle had died from his wounds. She had been crying, and I could see she was very sad. When she asked if I’d like to try walking, I nodded yes.
“Then let’s go see those boys you know from the truck,” she suggested. “They’ve been asking for you.”
As soon as we entered the boys’ ward, I spotted Ibrahim. He was lying on one of the many metal cots that filled the room. “Hi, Mariatu,” he said, a smile crossing his face. He didn’t sit up. Like me, it would take him some time to learn how to do things without hands. “Are you okay?” he asked.
I nodded, blinking back tears.
“Don’t you be crying there, Mariatu,” I heard Mohamed call. He sat on the edge of the bed directly behind Ibrahim’s, his legs dangling, his arms bandaged like mine.
Mohamed had the big fat grin he always wore. Despite the ordeal he had been through, his eyes sparkled.
“I guess we’re equal now,” he said as I sat down beside him.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, how are we going to wrestle? No one will win.”
I don’t know where it came from but I laughed and laughed. I felt like that little weaver bird again, but this time I had the feeling I could learn to fly.